


That's The Day My World Will End

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Sherlock shot CAM, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Heartache, Heavy Angst, John visits Sherlock's cell, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Season/Series 03, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Worry, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four days after Christmas, John finally gets to visit Sherlock. They have one last hour of privacy.</p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic.</p><p>This is the final episode of Heartaches By The Number.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's The Day My World Will End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not betaed, so please excuse my mistakes and feel free to point them out.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win_

_But the day that I stop counting , that's the day my world will end_

 

 

Four days. John had tried to fill up the four days since Christmas with activity to keep his mind off everything that had happened Christmas Day. He’d visited Mrs. Hudson twice. The second time he’d ended up napping in Sherlock’s - their - bed until after nightfall then reluctantly dragging himself back to the suburban house he couldn't bear to call home to fidget half the night away. He managed to avoid Mary most of the time and she seemed to be fine with the situation. She spent most of her time away from the house but there weren’t enough hours in the work week to cover all of her absences. After the first night, she had never suggested John sleep in the master bedroom. She did initiate physical contact, kissing John’s cheek goodbye, taking his hand across the breakfast table, laying her hand on his arm when she passed him in the hall. John was fine with that. It made it easier to keep up his facade of ‘loving but wary’ if he allowed her to touch him. He smiled a lot and that seemed to be enough to appease Mary.

 

He still couldn’t puzzle out what Mary wanted from him so he avoided thinking about it, just as he tried to avoid thinking about everything else that had happened in his life in the last eight months.

 

Midmorning of the fourth day found John at a Central London coffee shop, reading a newspaper and sipping black coffee. He’d taken the Tube into town before the morning rush hour and walked aimlessly until he found himself in front of a coffee shop where he and Sherlock had often shared a pastry over morning coffee. He took their usual booth and tried to immerse himself in the day’s news. He was  fighting a losing battle with his attention span when his text alarm chimed. 

 

Mycroft Holmes:   _ A car will pick you up in 20 minutes _

 

John fumbled his phone in shock. He understood what Mycroft had left unsaid: he was going to see Sherlock. He quickly tapped out an affirmative reply.

 

~*~

 

A ubiquitous black car pulled over in front of the coffee shop exactly 20 minutes later. John was surprised to find the back seat empty. He’d expected that Mycroft would accompany him. He greeted the driver/agent and then fell to silent musing. He knew the drill - no use questioning the agent assigned to drive him. He wouldn’t get any information. 

 

They crawled along in midday London traffic for an hour. It thinned as they reaches the outskirts of the metropolitan area. John studied the passing landscape of sprawling factories interspersed with vacant land of scrub brush. Eventually it turned to open green land. They skirted small villages and passed pasturelands of cattle and sheep. John even spotted a llama farm. Eventually the driver turned off to a tarmac country lane, then onto an even narrower gravel lane. They bumped along between low hills until the road eventually turned to tarmac again. The driver slowed when they reached a compound surrounded by a tall, black iron fence with sharply peaked finials at the top of each fence iron post. An earthen dike stretched the length of the fence, hiding whatever was inside it from passersby. John craned his neck to see the corner - the fence and dike took a right angle and continued out of view.

 

The driver pulled into a paved driveway cordoned off by a heavy duty black iron gate. He lowered the window and slid a card through a card reader. The gate slid open to admit them. Twenty yards on, they came to a heavily manned gate in the dike. The driver presented his identification to a guard in Army fatigues who held his rifle in ready position. John noticed the guard’s finger was on the trigger; that was worrying. The guard scanned the driver’s ID and pushed a code. The heavy gate slid open. Inside the dike they came to a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Its gate slid open, obviously operated by the armed Guard at the last gate. Inside the gate, John saw several low, windowless, flat-roofed cinderblock buildings painted a uniform black. The driver stopped in front of the second building. John saw a door of black metal with a card reader on the wall next to the knob - no sign, no address, no other identifying features. The driver got out and opened the door for John. He got out wordlessly and followed him to the door then waited while the driver/agent swiped his card in the reader. A loud click followed the swipe; the agent turned the knob and opened the door. John followed him into a brightly lit, bare room with hallways leading off three directions. The agent took the middle hall. John followed until the agent stopped in front of a bare steel door set into the white cinderblock wall. The agent swiped his card at the adjacent reader, opened the door and stepped back. “You have an hour,” he said.

 

The door closed behind John with a loud click. The sound of locks tumbling was loud in the tiny room. Sherlock stood in one corner, arms crossed across his chest. He was dressed in a loose grey tracksuit:  crew neck pullover and pocketless bottoms. The shirt hung loosely over the bottoms. On his feet he wore white cotton socks and rubber slides. And on his face, Sherlock wore an expression of surprise.

 

John threw himself toward Sherlock, pulling him close, burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, christ, I was so worried.” Even though his voice was muffled, the waiver it held was unmistakable. He clung to Sherlock tightly, fisting the cotton shirt in both hands. He continued after heaving a few breaths. “No one would tell me where you were. Greg didn’t know. There’s no police record.”

 

Sherlock had been still, his hands hanging loose at his sides, but he finally wrapped both arms around John and held him close. “John.” The emotions he’d kept in check since committing murder roughened his voice. He grasped John’s shoulders and held him away. “John,” he said again as he pulled John close again.

 

John burrowed his forehead into Sherlock’s chest and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “Are you okay?” he managed. Sherlock stroked John’s back and murmured an affirmative response. They held each other silently for a few heartbeats before John spoke again. “Nothing has been reported in the papers or on the news. There was a short notice earlier this week that Charles Augustus Magnussen died at his home and a private funeral would be held at a later date. That’s it.”  Sherlock murmured, “Mycroft” and John nodded against his chest.

 

“What is this place?” John asked. 

 

“It’s nothing. It's nowhere. It isn’t listed on any map, not even Google Earth shows it. There’s no name. It was built during the Cold War to hold Communist spies and other enemies of the state for interrogation. Now it’s used for terrorists.”

 

John gasped and looked up into Sherlock’s face. “Surely you’re not being considered a terrorist?”

 

Sherlock smiled sadly. “No, but Mycroft negotiated a deal for me to be held here unofficially.” Sherlock looked around the tiny room. “It’s better than a goal cell, don’t you think?”

 

John looked around the room. It held a narrow metal bed and a chair. A doorless wall partitioned off a white porcelain toilet, sink and small metal shower stall. Two towels hung on hooks beside the shower door. “Yeah, much better,” John answered and meant it. The overhead light showed how clean the room was. “What have you been doing?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing. Thinking. A few pushups, situps. Running in place. I haven’t been out of this room since the day after Christmas.” He showed John four small pinch-made bruises on the back of his arm. “I’m keeping count of the days.”

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John breathed. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s jaw. “I’m pissed as hell at you, you know. What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

 

Sherlock gave another small smile. “I wasn’t thinking. I just acted on impulse, to keep you, Mary and the baby safe.” He took John’s hand in his in and entwined their fingers. “Can you forgive me?”

 

John shook the fistful of shirt he still held. “Of course I forgive you, you idiot. I just wish I hadn’t listened to you and left my gun at home.”

 

“I bargained a guilty plea in exchange for all charges against you to be dropped.”

 

John’s jaw dropped. “I thought Mycroft had worked his magic.”

 

“He did. I haven’t actually been charged, so I haven’t entered a plea. But I did offer that, for you.  It also helps that the head of the Security Committee is a client.”

 

‘Lady Smallwood.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Too late for her husband, I’m afraid, though.”

 

John nodded slowly. “So now what?”

 

“I don’t know. Mycroft has visited me twice. He’s trying to work out a deal.”

 

John shook Sherlock’s shirt again. “Did you have to shoot him in front of a dozen witnesses?”

 

“Next time I’ll try to find a more discrete spot.”

 

They both broke into laughter at the incongruity of Sherlock’s remark. Their eyes met as their mirth died down and John breathed, “Oh Sherlock,” as he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.

 

They kissed as if were the last taste they’d have of each other. Sherlock backed John up against the narrow bed then pressed his weight against John’s chest. They tumbled together, ending up side-by-side, John’s back against the wall with Sherlock's knee between his legs. John wound his top leg around Sherlock’s and his arms around Sherlock’s torso, closing the small gap between their bodies. 

 

“Mycroft assured me privacy for this hour. No camera, no microphones,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips. 

 

“And we’ve already wasted five minutes,” John said as he pushed Sherlock onto his back and kissed him. He pushed the lose track shirt up to his armpits. Sherlock broke the kiss to jerk the ugly thing over his head then work the buttons of John’s cardigan loose. John helped by unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirt, then sat up and jerked it over his head, cardigan and all. Sherlock pulled him back down, kissing him over and over again until they both panted. He pulled at John’s arse with both hands to grind John’s hip into his erection. They both groaned.

 

Impatient hands tugged hems and worked buttons until they finally lay entwined, naked, on top of the rough woolen blanket. John cupped Sherlock’s jaw as he looked into his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to tell Sherlock, but words just would not come. Instead, he dipped his head and began kissing Sherlock’s neck, sliding lower in minute increments over taut muscles and Adam’s apple, until he laved the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s neck. He’d reached as far as possible in his cramped position so he rolled Sherlock onto his back, straddling his thigh, leaving a wet trail ever lower over pectorals, ribs, abdomen and pelvis until Sherlock was trembling below him. 

 

At long last, John slowly left a trail of open mouthed kisses up Sherlock’s swollen prick. He sat back to admire the wet trail on Sherlock’s smooth, hot skin. Sherlock raised his head and shoved the single thin pillow behind it. He gave John a pleading look. John looked up in time to catch the look and understand it’s meaning. He smiled and ran his fingertips up the ropy vein in Sherlock’s erection. John knew that under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have snapped something like, “Well get on with it,” but today, every word and look took on greater weight. He held Sherlock’s gaze as he lowered his mouth again, letting it fall open as he tongued the tip of Sherlock’s glans. Sherlock sighed when John took the entire head into his mouth and closed his lips loosely. 

 

He knew that Sherlock loved, simply _loved_ felatio more than any other sex act. If there was any chance that this would be their last time alone together, John wanted to make it memorable.

 

Sherlock groaned as John slowly worked his foreskin down with lips and tongue, taking time to run the tip of his tongue around Sherlock’s corona. Up and down John’s head bobbed, lips lose on the upward motion and tight on the down -  the technique he knew that Sherlock liked best. He pulled off with a low ‘pop’ then kissed up and down the shaft again, steadying Sherlock’s flushed erection in the palm of his hand. Sherlock now kept up a constant stream of breathy sighs, pants and hitched breaths. 

 

John settled lower between Sherlock’s legs, folding his knees under his body so they would fit on the small bed, nudging Sherlock’s legs further apart. Sherlock had to bend his knees sharply to fit. He reached around Sherlock’s thighs to cup his buttocks and teased his thumbs against Sherlock’s premium.  His reward was a keen, so John continued teasing over the sensitive skin. 

 

Sherlock raised his hands over his head to grip the low metal headboard. He placed his feet flat beside John’s torso and used the leverage to lift his hips. John hummed and smiled at Sherlock with his eyes. With that encouragement, Sherlock rocked up into John’s mouth to meet John’s rhythm. His moans grew louder as John took him deeper and deeper with each thrust, until John’s nose was buried in the nest of sable hair at the base of Sherlock’s cock. 

 

Sherlock let go of the headboard and threaded this fingers through John’s hair as his release tightened his bollocks. John cupped them with one hand as he continued to tease Sherlock’s perineum with the other until Sherlock tensed and came with a groan, knotting John’s hair tight in his fingers. 

 

John released Sherlock with a soft kiss and burrowed his forehead in Sherlock’s thigh. His shoulders began to shake and a wet sound escaped his throat. Sherlock sat up in alarm. He gripped John’s shoulders and pulled him up to his lap. “What? Are you alright? Did I…”

 

Shaking his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, John cut him off with, “No, no. It’s just,” followed by another soft, wet sound. Sherlock stroked his hair, his back, his shoulders. “I know, I know,” he murmured. He leaned back against the hard, cold headboard and continued to stroke John’s back. They sat in silence for a while, until Sherlock broke it by asking, “Do you want me to … ummm.”

 

“No, no,” John said, shaking his head where it lay on Sherlock’s shoulder. He tightened his arms around Sherlock’s torso. “I don’t need to. I just want to be here with you.”

 

Sherlock hummed then returned to tracing John’s spine. A knock sounded against the door and a voice barked out, “Five Minutes.”

 

John lifted his head and looked into Sherlock’s face. “We’d better get dressed.”

 

Sherlock wave his hand dismissively. “Let them come in.”

 

“I care, Sherlock.” John rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Get dressed.”

 

They dressed in a hurry then sat on the bed with John’s arms around Sherlock. Many thoughts swirled in both of their minds, but they remained silent, kissing softly. 

 

Another knock on the door was followed by the sound of the lock being turned from the outside. John moved forward and made to stand, but Sherlock leaned heavily against him. For the first time in their brief rendezvous, John saw fear in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“One moment please,” Sherlock called out. “Please, give us one moment of privacy.” The metallic slide of locks turning stopped. He turned to John and ran his hands over John’s face and neck. 

 

The panicked light in Sherlock’s eyes intensified and John pulled him close, hugging him tight. “It will be all right, Sherlock. It will. Mycroft will work something out. Just. Hold on a little longer. You can. Hold on, please.”

 

“You love me,” Sherlock nearly whined. 

 

“Yeah, I do.” The door began to open. “Remember that, Sherlock. Just hold on.”

 

Sherlock rose when the dark-suited guard stood in the doorway. John grasped him by the upper arm and looked up into his eyes. “Hold on, Sherlock. Promise me, you will.”

 

“I will,” Sherlock promised. “I’ll try.”

 


End file.
